


Understudy

by Ironlawyer



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Captivity, Hurt No Comfort, Identity Porn, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 15:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironlawyer/pseuds/Ironlawyer
Summary: Wilson Fisk wants the Iron Man armour. He’s willing to go through Tony and Steve to get it.





	Understudy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/gifts).
  * Inspired by [RBB Art - Down in the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935011) by [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/pseuds/phoenixmetaphor). 



> This is for the Cap-IM 2018 RBB and goes with phoenixmetaphor's wonderful art - check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935011) \- it is also embedded where appropriate in the story (be warned, it is somewhat nsfw). Thank you so much for all of your patience and for making such amazing artwork. It was great working with you.
> 
> Also thank you to Wynnesome for looking this over right at the last minute.
> 
> I'm also working on another longer story that will also go with this art!

When he’s being honest with himself, the suit makes Tony feel vulnerable. They call Iron Man invincible, but the suit started as a Hail Mary, and every time he wears it, he is willingly walking into the valley of death, not knowing if he’ll walk back out again.

The suit does not make Tony feel invincible.

But Steve does.

Around Steve, Tony is always complacent. Distracted. Waiting on those moments of lingering eye contact, the touch of his hand, that gentle smile. Around Steve the suit gives him focus, keeps his mind buzzing with the background noise of knowing that he could die at any moment. Iron Man can stand calm beside Steve because everything is tinged with the fear of death. Tony Stark does not get that luxury. Steve can step in the room and Tony is _gone_. All butterflies and twitching fingers and he’s like a school kid with a thinly veiled crush.

That’s how it happens, maybe, because Tony is human and foolish and nothing without his armour and Steve is only one man.

They’re supposed to talk finances and weaponry, but Tony’s booked a fucking candle lit dinner, had his hair done and doused himself in the aftershave Steve complimented once. Steve meets him at the mansion doors in uniform, smiles like it isn’t obvious, doesn’t question the intimacy of it. Not for the first time, Tony wonders if Steve knows, if he doesn’t mention it because he’s letting him down gently. If Tony is looking for something he isn’t going to find.

Tony fiddles with the hem of his suit jacket and pretends he isn’t pretending this is a date.

In the restaurant, he tells himself that Steve’s eyes do not linger any longer than is usual, that his hand resting on the table is not asking to be touched. He imagines the croak in Steve’s voice when he says Iron Man, and Tony breaks eye contact because every part of this is a lie.

Steve talks about Iron Man all the time. Tony shuffles in his chair, makes only vague murmurs of agreement and tries to change the topic when Steve tells him about all the amazing things he does and what a great guy he is. Tony feels like a fucking liar.

It’s late by the time they leave. Dim streetlights and dead streets. They walk back to Tony’s penthouse, because that’s the kind of guy Steve is. _Let me walk you home, Mr Stark._ Tony would be charmed if he wasn’t already infatuated. He thinks if he was braver, he’d reach for Steve’s hand, instead he stands so close he can feel his body heat radiating.

Three men in black suits come from the shadows and if Tony wasn’t so distracted he might’ve noticed them. They’re holding him on the floor with a gun to his head before he can react.

There’s dirt in his mouth, the scratch of gravelly concrete against his cheek, and his arm is twisted, held behind him in a bruising grip until it starts to go numb.

Steve isn’t fighting and Tony knows it’s because of him. The gun is too close. Finger on the trigger, they’d pull it before Steve could stop them.

‘Don’t,’ Steve says. ‘Don’t hurt him.’

Tony wants to be brave and heroic and by now he’s gotten so used to it. He moves his hand on autopilot, like he can blast them with a repolsur, like he is still more than this frail human body. Someone hits him with the butt of a gun, bashes his chin against the concrete. Stupidly, his first thought is that he’ll never get the blood out of the Armani.

They cuff him in manacles and chains, tight behind his back. The sound of rattling metal tells Tony they cuff Steve too. Adamantium maybe, or vibranium. It doesn’t matter, they won’t be breaking free.

Tony is hauled to his feet and two of the guys stay with Steve as the other frog marches Tony to a shiny, new BMW, gun to his head the whole way. Tony’s eyes linger on the trunk, but the guy with the gun just laughs. ‘We’re not so uncivilised, Mr Stark. Get in the car.’ The driver steps out, holds the door open and the smell of leather polished upholstery and Cuban cigars turns Tony’s stomach.

\-----

Tony is not new to pain. Much of his childhood was a series of near misses with older children and angry adults. His father. Much of his adult life has been near misses with death and permanent injury. Tony has a high tolerance for pain and fear.

They cover his face with a soft satin cloth like this is something civilised. A gentle hand at his elbow guides him through the darkness and silence. They sit him down on a warm leather couch and someone tugs his shoes and socks off. He runs his toes through the thick carpet and tries to focus on the soft warmth of it as they strip him of his clothes.

Everything is luxury. He feels like a death row inmate being treated to his last meal before brutal reality comes crashing back down. Tony thinks this would be easier if it was raised voices and violence. He has a high tolerance for pain and fear, it’s the waiting that’s tough.

They pull him to his feet, tug his pants free and he’s standing naked, but for the hood. He’s never been body conscious, but here he feels raw and ugly and he fights back the urge to wrap his arms around his chest, like maybe this will be okay if he doesn’t show weakness.

The hand is on his elbow again, it’s warm but raises goosebumps on his arm nonetheless. The carpet absorbs the sound of their footsteps and the silence makes him feel like he’s walking through a graveyard. Walking to his grave.

Down a spiral staircase and winding hallway, he thinks of the mansion. He thinks of Steve and opens his mouth to ask after him, but thinks better of it. There’ll be no answers yet. He hopes he’s in a better position.

Tony’s feet stop on concrete and the arm on his elbow disappears. Waiting. Waiting. He has always hated the wait.

Chains rattle. The manacles are tugged. He’s pushed to his knees and the chain is pulled tight. They put a collar round his neck like he is an animal. Leave him there, kneeling on the hard, cold concrete in their basement prison. They don’t even bother to tell him what they want from him.

He waits.

\-----

Some hours later, when his knees have gone numb, when his arms and back ache and he is tired and desperately needs a piss, someone comes back. They grab the hood and a handful of Tony’s hair with it and yank. The light is dim but harsh in tired eyes.

He blinks away the shock of it and stares at the gun pointed at his head. He watches the man’s finger twitch as if he’s already waiting to pull the trigger.

It’s been a long time coming for an execution, he thinks. He looks around for cameras but there are none he can see. It’s personal then, perhaps. Maggia, maybe. Doom, or the Mandarin. He’s been dodging death for years now. Maybe his luck has finally run out.

The door at the top of the stairway opens and they walk Steve in, manacled and chained and leading him like a dog. Not a gun in sight, save the one pointed at Tony’s head. The threat is enough and Tony knows that if it comes to it, Steve would rather die himself.

They chain him up on the far side of the room, behind Tony. No one speaks a word. Maybe he should make a joke, lighten the mood, let Steve know he isn’t scared. But the truth is, he is scared. The suit is in the trunk of his car somewhere miles from here and Steve is at the mercy of these men as long as Tony is helpless to them.

He cranes his neck to lock eyes with Steve. Pressing his luck, maybe, but he needs to see him properly. Make sure he’s okay.

‘Don’t worry Mr Stark,’ Steve says. ’Iron Man will be here soon.’

Tony smiles, then he’s struck with the butt of the gun and it doesn’t seem so funny anymore.

Steve hisses. ‘Bastard.’ And his chains rattle with the strain but he says no more.

Steve’s breath stays heavy and Tony wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, so Tony feels less alone. He wishes he _was_ here alone.

Light blooms across the dim basement once more. The clack of a cane on concrete, the steps creak with heavy footsteps. The room is filled with the pungent smoke of a lit cigar. Tony knows before he sees him. Should’ve guessed earlier, maybe.

‘Captain America and Tony Stark. What a treat.’ Wilson Fisk comes to a stop a few feet before Tony, taps his cane three times on the concrete, looks him up and down like he’s checking a new purchase for damage. He never looks at Steve.

‘Fisk.’ Steve hisses and the crack of sudden pressure on the chains makes Tony start. Steve’s a fighter, always. It’s only Tony keeping him in line here. Shame spreads hot in his chest. He wishes he was a hero without the armour.

Fisk tuts. ‘What have you been told, Captain?’ He asks like a teacher scolding a child, then he raises his cane and strikes Tony across the face. ‘Keep your mouth shut.’

For a moment the world fades into something bright and dizzy and Tony wonders if pain ever gets easier. When the world comes back to focus, there’s a tooth in Tony’s mouth. Sharp and bloody, he runs his tongue across it, rolls it around his mouth. The taste of blood, slick and metal, is fresh and familiar and for a moment, it brings back the feeling of power he gets when he wears the armour. He spits the tooth at Fisk and it bounces off his rotund belly and leaves a little spot of red on his crisp white suit.

Fisk scowls, raps his fingers on the head of his cane and puffs his cigar. ‘I think you’re going to regret that, Mr Stark.’ But there’s no trace of anger in it. He shucks off the blood stained jacket and hands it off to the silent, black-suited cohort who stands at his side. Tony hadn’t even noticed him, like a stage hand, meant to blend into the background when the leading man is around. The man takes the jacket and dashes off up the stairs without a word.

‘I think,’ Tony says, ‘it was worth it.’ He smiles and lets the blood dribble down his jaw.

Fisk chuckles and Tony thinks if it wasn’t so serious, he’d almost sound jolly. ‘We’ll see about that, I suppose.’

‘What do you want with us, Fisk?’ Steve asks and without warning, Fisk hits Tony in the ribs this time.

‘I’d heard you were a stubborn mule, Captain, but I didn’t know you were so foolish, too.’ He leans close to Tony, breathing cigar smoke into his face. Tony wants to spit on him, but thinks better of it. He can take it, but provoking achieves nothing, it’ll only make matters worse.

Fisk steps back again, holds his cane to Tony’s chest twirling idle patterns in his chest hair. ‘Perhaps I can do you one courtesy though. After all, I’m a busy man; I don’t have time to play games.’

Tony snorts before he can stop himself, but this time Fisk does not strike out. He tilts his head, raises a brow. ‘Do you find something funny, Mr Stark? Do I amuse you?’

‘Not at all,’ Tony says, flat and grave, because there is nothing for this but to play Fisk’s game.

Fisk wraps both hands around the butt of his cane, cigar dangling between knitted fingers, leans heavy on it and his face twists with a theatrical impression of thought. ‘No? Then why the laughter? Perhaps you’re misunderstanding the gravity of your situation, Mr Stark.’

He waves a hand to the man standing behind Tony and the gun is withdrawn. Tony is under no illusion that the threat is gone. ‘I want you to feel at home here, Mr Stark. I have no quarrel with you, it’s a certain employee of yours I would like to settle matters with. Perhaps you can help me.’

Tony cracks. Great, heaving laughter. Not because it’s funny - none of this is funny - but of all the things both tragic and ridiculous that have happened since he became Iron Man, there’s something twisted in the thought that this is something he has brought on himself.

He can’t explain it though, so he turns it into something else. Pretends he is an honourable man. ‘I wouldn’t give you Iron Man to save my life.’

Fisk sighs. ‘I worried you might say that. I’m not a cruel man, Mr Stark, but sometimes it’s necessary for a man of my position to demonstrate that he is not a pushover. It’s a simple request and I think you’d do better to consider it very seriously before you refuse.’

The stairwell door opens then and the black-suited man returns. He carries a fresh white suit jacket on a wire hanger. Fisk perches the cigar between his lips and holds his arms out to be dressed as though he is the star of a stage show going through a costume change. The man even does the button for him.

Fisk puffs his cigar once more. ‘I love a good cigar, don’t you, Mr Stark?’ He waves the slowly burning cigar carefully and watches the ashes smoulder. ‘Beautiful things. Such craftsmanship in them. Sometimes I think it’s only when I taste their smoke that I am truly alive.’ He steps closer to Tony now and waves the cigar beneath his nose. ‘What do you say, Mr Stark? Would you like a taste?’

Fisk holds it there beneath his nose as the ashes build. Stop for breath. Poisoned air. Tony’s lungs feel heavy with it. He used to smoke cigars too, but lost his taste for them somewhere along the line. Fisk flicks it and the ashes and ember fall to Tony’s chest, catch in his chest hair, scorch the skin and the smell of cigar smoke mixes with the scent of burning hair.

Steve’s chains are rattling again. Tony wonders if he’s shaking or struggling, trying to stop this or trying to stop himself. Still, Tony says nothing.

‘No then?’ Fisk asks. ‘How disappointing.’ He tuts. ‘You should learn to appreciate a courtesy, Mr Stark, show some gratitude.’ Fisk is not a good enough actor to mask the pleasure in his voice. He takes one final puff on the cigar and without further warning stubs it out on Tony’s side. Clear where Steve can see it.

Tony clenches his jaw and tries not to scream. He closes his eyes and thinks of all the battles in the suit, burning metal, sizzling his flesh. No different, no different. He thinks he’s going to puke all over Fisk’s fresh suit. He think he shouldn’t try to stop himself.

Steve is struggling. Cursing and chains clanging. He imagines Steve’s wrists must be bloody by now and hates to think he’s suffering.

Tony let’s his shoulders go slack and breathes deep through clenched teeth. _Be strong_ he thinks. For Steve. ‘That tickled,’ he says and despite himself it comes out breathless and weak.

‘It’s going to be okay, Mr Stark.’ But Steve doesn’t sound like he believes it. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he says again, trying to convince himself maybe. ‘I promise. The Avengers will be looking for us, Iron Man will tell them you’re missing.’

Tony is glad Steve gets to have hope.

Fisk hands the cigar stub to the armed crony who still stands at Tony’s side. ‘I’m a patient man, Captain, generous, merciful. I’ll let that one slide, for the sake of your friend, but my patience only goes so far.’

He turns to Steve now, steps away from Tony and doesn’t look back, like a switch has flicked and Steve is suddenly illuminated and Tony in the dark. ‘Mr Stark _is_ a friend of yours, no?’ Steve doesn’t answer. ‘He funds your little superhero group, doesn’t he?’ Fisk scratches his jaw, raps his cane on the floor and steps closer still to Steve. Tony loses sight of him, and he twists in the chains, tugging. Manacles cutting into his wrist. Warm blood oozing down his arm.

He can see them, just barely, from the corner of his eye. Fisk stands just out of Steve’s reach, taunting him as if he is tapping on the glass of a snake’s cage. Tony’s wrists ache but it takes his mind off the burn still searing at his side. It’ll scar, he think, brand him for the rest of his life, but he has other battle scars and he won’t be ashamed.

Fisk lifts the cane to Steve’s face, rests it against his cheek for a moment and Tony feels sick at the thought of watching this. He should look away maybe, for Steve, but Tony is weak.

Fisk doesn’t lash out though. He hooks the cane beneath the eye of the cowl and tugs it up and off. Even here and now, Tony is struck by Steve’s beauty. He doesn’t belong in his place.

‘No one.’ Fisk huffs. ‘How disappointing.’ Of every comment Fisk has made so far, that one sears the most. Steve is not a celebrity, but he is so much more than the suit.

‘I would think you wouldn’t want Mr Stark to suffer,’ Fisk says, changing tack now his curiosity is satisfied.

‘Hurt me,’ Steve says. Tony tenses, though he expected it. Steve is not the sort of man to stand idle and watch another man suffer. ‘Mr Stark isn’t a part of this,’ Steve continues. ‘He’s just a civilian. Let him go.’

‘Don’t you fucking touch him,’ Tony says. And maybe it’s too sharp, too telling, there’s too much Iron Man in it, because he feels Steve’s eyes on him.

But Fisk continues like he doesn’t even hear. Like none of it matters. Tony supposes it doesn’t. Fisk has a script and nothing Tony or Steve say can change where this is heading. It’s all part of the game. Fisk is a cat needling the mouse between his paws before devouring it.

‘Oh no, no,’ Fisk says with faux indignation. ‘I’m no monster. You’re Captain America, man of the people. I had your action figure when I was a child.’ Tony struggles to imagine Fisk playing with action figures. Imagines instead that he was the kind of child who set fires and hurt animals. ‘No,’ Fisk continues. ‘I have no intention of hurting you, Captain.’

He steps away, turns back to Tony. ‘In fact, I have no intention of hurting anyone,’ As if Tony’s side isn’t still burning. As if his mouth isn’t still bleeding sluggishly. As if his eye isn’t swelling shut. ‘All I want,’ he makes a lazy gesture with his hand and says the words slow and simple, ‘is Iron Man.’ He stands before Tony again, close enough now that Tony could kick him in the balls if he was feeling brave enough, but Steve is here and Tony will toe the line until it’s only his own life at stake.

‘I want Iron Man,’ Fisk repeats, ‘And you, Mr Stark will bring him to me.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because if you don’t, I will find another way to get my hands on one of those suits of yours. You’re an intelligent man, Mr Stark, don’t do yourself the disservice of pretending you won’t break.’ Fisk steps closer, leans right into Tony’s space, his breath ghosting over Tony’s ear. He smells of smoke and the same spicy aftershave Tony once wore. ‘You’re fond of him,’ Fisk whispers, low, but amused. ‘Too fond, perhaps.’

He steps back, smiling, knowing he has said enough.

‘How about it, then?’ He looks from Tony to Steve and back. Tony wants to wipe the smirk off his face. ‘Which one of you will capitulate first?’ Tony is silent. Steve is silent. ‘How honourable. I’m not surprised at the Captain, but I see your employee’s idea of heroics has rubbed off on you.’

Fisk hums. He taps his fingers around the ball of the cane in what would look like an anxious tick in anyone else, but here its threat is clear. ‘I think you need to see how serious I am,’ Fisk says. ‘A little demonstration, perhaps.’ He waves a hand towards the man who brought the clean suit jacket and Tony realises he’s been standing there in silence the whole time. Fisk gestures vaguely to Tony and the man walks right up to him, circles him, eyes him up and down like he’s a puzzle to be solved.

There’s a glint of metal in his hand, he swishes it like a riding crop as he paces. With a detached clarity, Tony realises it’s the hanger he brought Fisk’s clean jacket in on. There’s a certain turnabout there that Tony could almost laugh at, like it’s some kind of cycle of pain.

Fisk drags it out, long minutes ticking by. Tony closes his eyes, draws a slow, deep breath. Anticipation is the first stage of torture. Tony knows the game. He watches the metal gliding through the air and listens to the swish, though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s dramatic and ridiculous, and he is fucking terrified.

Tony locks eyes with Fisk and pretends he is brave. ‘Waiting for Christmas?’

Fisk smiles, smoke stained teeth, shark like. It’s an ugly, unnatural thing, like someone’s put wires in his mouth and pulled them taut. ‘You will make _all_ my Christmases, Mr Stark.’

Fisk turns to Steve, stares him down with something cold, and vicious that has broken past the theatrics of it all. ‘Bring me what I want or this will continue. Days and weeks and years, and his suffering will know no end.’ He turns back to Tony. ‘Your suffering will know no end.’

The black suit stops pacing. Steps behind Tony and the first blow comes swift and sharp. Lance of lighting whipping through his body. Stolen breath. And again, before he gets it back.

Three. Five. Ten.

He loses count. He’s shuddering, shaking. It runs through his body taking everything. His eyes flicker closed because he cannot see and they are heavy and he is heavy and he cannot breathe and he cannot think.

The chains are rattling. There is warm blood dripping down his back. He cannot feel his fingers. He feels everything else. Again. And it still takes his body by surprise. He thinks he was supposed to be strong about this.

He pisses himself. He should be embarrassed; Steve is here.

Again.

He doesn’t care.

He thinks he can’t take much more.

Then it stops.

Someone releases the pulley holding his wrists up and Tony collapses, too limp and tired to support his own dead weight. He curls up on his side and feels the cool concrete aching against the blistering flesh on his side that seems so inconsequential now.

His hands tingle, then they’re aching, swelling. There’s so much pressure inside them that they feel like balloons about to burst, but when he looks at them, they’re pale and stiff but otherwise normal.

Puff, puff, puff. Fisk lights another cigar in the otherwise silence. ‘It is regrettable,’ he says but there’s no hint of sorrow in his voice. He puts the tip of his cane beneath Tony’s chin and uses it to tilt Tony’s head back. Now that it’s over, Tony is ashamed of the tears in his eyes and the piss drying on his legs.

He can’t stop shaking.

‘Be thankful though,’ Fisk says. ‘I think this is evidence enough without, say, losing a finger or two, don’t you think?’ Fisk turns to Steve. ‘You’ll be calling your teammate momentarily, I trust.’

‘Tony,’ Steve says and in spite of it all, Tony smiles, because, even though it’s desperate and scared, his first name sounds right on Steve’s lips. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ Steve says but Tony has never heard him sound so unsure. ‘I promise,’ he says, ‘I promise, I promise.’ Like is he says it enough it’ll be true. Tony’s never known Cap to break a promise. There’s a first time for everything.

‘Yes,’ Fisk says. ‘You’re right. Everything will be just fine. There is a very simple solution to both of our problems, Captain. I’m a merciful man, there really is no need for Mr Stark to suffer more than this.’

He snaps his fingers and Tony braces for another blow. The hanger clatters to the ground somewhere behind him and he flinches as if it is the blow he expected. He might’ve been ashamed of that once, might’ve glanced Steve’s way to see if he noticed, might’ve tried to hide it behind a smirk and a quip, but priorities change and Tony is still reminding his body how to breathe.

Fisk’s minions return to his side as calm and casual as if they’re returning from a sunny morning stroll through Central Park.

Tony looks at the black suit properly now. Blandly handsome features, average height and average build and unremarkable in every regard. His ill fitted suit is spotted with Tony’s blood.

‘I’m a generous man,’ Fisk says, with confidence, as though the thought isn’t laughable. ‘I suppose it’s only fair that I give you time to consider my proposal. Think it over carefully Captain, Mr Stark, because next time, I will show you more than a demonstration.’

Fisk turns on his heel then and his cronies follow him. The stairs creak beneath the strain, the door is closed quietly and the lights dimmed.

 

\-----

‘Mr Stark?’ Steve is hesitant. ‘How bad is it? Can you move? Can you stand?’

Tony reaches for his neck, tugs at the collar but it’s locked in place and his fingers are weak and shaky. His tongue feels dry and swollen, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tries to reply, but he’s so tired, fuzzy. It’s important, maybe. They should use this time, but he just wants to rest.

‘The Avengers will get us out of here,’ Steve says. ‘I trust them. I trust Iron Man with my life.’

‘Iron Man?’ Tony asks. Their great hope. It’s cruel, but part of Tony wants to tell Steve what a fucking idiot he is. He want to laugh and cry and take his hope like Tony’s has been taken. It’s cruel, but Tony is cruel.

‘I don’t think he’s coming, Cap,’ is all he says, flat and quiet because it takes more energy than he has to spare.

‘Have faith, Tony. He won’t leave us like this. He’s your bodyguard remember.’

Tony is going to die in this place. He drags himself across the floor, open skin stretching, bleeding, aching with the movement. He just needs to be close.

He lays at Steve’s feet, rests one hand limp on Steve’s ankle, worms his fingers beneath the fabric of his boot, feels the heartbeat at his ankle. Tony feels no better for it.

‘Can you stand?’ Steve asks and it’s so soft, so gentle. Tony thinks this is what Steve would sound like if he loved him.

He struggles to sit, wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, tugs himself up, and it’s the worst feeling and the best feeling and he rests his head on Steve’s shoulder and breathes heavy in his ear and if this were something different he’d maybe get turned on, but all he wants now is to feel it.

‘Can you reach the chains?’ Steve asks like this is nothing. Like Tony isn’t draped across him in some horrible parody of a lovers embrace.

‘Can I kiss you?’ Tony asks because he’s tired and hurting and he has nothing left to lose.

But Steve goes still and seconds go by and nothing is said.

‘I like you, Tony,’ Steve says eventually, but it’s slow and careful and Tony knows a no when he hears it. ‘I like you a lot. But I can’t.’

‘Why?’ Tony murmurs into Steve’s shoulder and it doesn’t feel so comforting anymore. It’s cruel he thinks, that Steve won’t let him have this, but Steve doesn’t know. Steve still thinks rescue is on the way.

His will is gone. He starts to sink. The breath-catching wait for something, anything. Knowing it’s not going to come. ‘I can’t,’ Steve says. ‘It’s Iron Man,’ he says slowly. ‘I think I’m in love with him.’

Tony finds the words on his lips. They are his freedom from this. He could have his kiss, he could have his hope. He would take it from Steve.

He can never say it now. It’s sort of funny, he thinks, that it hurts worse than the whip did.

‘Figures,’ Tony says. He closes his eyes, slides back down to the floor, lays curled up at Steve’s feet and lets it be something like peace. Steve says nothing more.

\-----

Fisk and the black suit come back hours later. Fisk looks at Tony, still curled up at Steve’s feet. ‘Ah. I see.’ He laughs. An ugly, throaty sound that echoes off the empty walls and lingers in Tony’s mind far after it’s gone.

Fisk waves a hand and the black suit hooks the chain into the loop at Tony’s neck, wraps his wrists back in manacles and yanks, dragging Tony to his feet, forcing him to lean on Steve for support. ‘Perhaps you’d like to give Mr Stark a goodbye kiss,’ Fisk taunts.

Steve looks at Tony, but Tony doesn’t meet his eye. He stares at Steve’s chest instead and notices the stillness, like he’s holding his breath. Tony wishes he could tell him. In all the times he has thought about it, _I love you Steve_ and _I’m Iron Man_ have always been the same fantasy.

Tony reaches out one bloody hand. The manacle catches in the suit, tugs one of the scales free and it gets stuck there, pressing against Tony’s pulse point.

‘Please?’ Tony asks. He’s not beyond begging a pity kiss. He should feel bad about it maybe, taking Steve’s good nature and twisting it against him like this, but he wants it anyway.

‘I’m sorry,’ Steve says. ‘I can’t.’

‘Just once. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I just need it _, please_.’

‘Mr Stark, I –’ But Steve shakes his head, thinks better of it maybe. Tony is bloody and begging and digging his fingers into Steve’s chest like he can’t let go. ‘Tony,’ Steve says, but Tony doesn’t let him say more.

Tony kisses him. Steve’s breath tastes sour and stale, and his tongue touches the raw gum where Tony’s missing tooth once was. There is beauty in the humanity of it, even as Tony hates himself for it. Steve has never felt so real and Tony has never felt so alive.

Tony wants to hold on to it. Pretends they are in another place, another time, and he is brave enough to find the words for the thing that hovers between them. Brave enough to be the shift in their relationship. To take them from Captain America and Iron Man and into Steve and Tony. Tony thinks he likes the sound of that. Steve and Tony. Who they might’ve been.

Steve pulls away, shakes his head, breaks the illusion. Then the black suit yanks the chain and Tony is choking and kneeling on the dusty concrete of Fisk’s basement torture chamber.

‘Heart-warming.’ Fisk chuckles. He drags Tony back to the middle of the room, locks the manacles in place and leaves Tony on his knees, just as before, but this time facing Steve.

‘What do you say?’ Fisk asks. ‘Have you made up your mind?’

Tony locks eyes with Steve. They could both die here, but only one of them needs to. Steve will be gone and Steve will be safe and that is something Tony can do. So he stares him down, turns his face hard and remembers how to act like an asshole.

‘Okay,’ Tony says. ‘I’ll give you _Iron Man_ ,’ and he spits the name with all the hatred he can muster. ‘There are override codes, you can have the armour, he’ll be helpless and you can do whatever you want with him.’

And Steve believes him, because Steve is honest and kind and Tony is good at taking advantage of that.

‘Tony.’ Steve hisses. Tony can still read him. Adjusting his face, setting it like stone. A mask. He’s used to that, like Tony is. It’s their life. It’s funny that Tony sees it so clearly in Steve and Steve doesn’t see it in him. Maybe Tony is just a better liar. ‘Don’t.’ Sharp. Filled with the betrayal Tony wants him to believe this is.

‘An excellent choice,’ Fisk says, but Tony doesn’t take his eyes off Steve. It’s just them now. Tony is saying goodbye without saying anything at all.

‘Let him go. Make him leave,’ Tony says eventually and there’s strength in the words, deliberate to hide past his broken body and his breaking heart. Careful to sound cruel. ‘Let him go and I’ll give you Iron Man.’

‘A lovers’ quarrel, then?’ Fisk makes a gesture to Steve. ‘Do as he asks,’ he tells the black suit, then turns back to Tony. ‘But if you think I’m a fool, remember we have hardly begun here.’

‘No tricks,’ Tony says. ‘I want this as much as you do.’

‘This won’t make me love you, Stark,’ Steve says. It hurts more than the torture, that he’s not _Tony_ anymore. He’ll see this charade though to the end because he loves Steve too much not to do this for him.

‘I don’t care,’ Tony says. ‘He can’t have you either.’ The years have made Tony a good actor and he doesn’t have to fake the bitterness in his voice. He can never have Steve. Iron Man can never have Steve.

The black suit unclips Steve’s chains and leads him away. Steve moves stiff and silent and doesn’t look at Tony as they march him across the room. He pauses at the foot of the stairs and his body gives nothing. Steve is not a man who might love Tony anymore.

‘I thought better of you, Tony.’ Steve has spent half his adult life fighting fascists and murderers and Tony has never heard so much venom in his voice.

Tony wants to scream, wants to die, wants to take Steve by the shoulders and say _I love you, I love you, I fucking_ love _you._ But all he can do is sit there, watch Steve walking away, watch his whole world leaving him behind, and think _I love you_ and it has to be enough.

The door closes.

Tony waits. Counts down the seconds until Steve will be safe and free and _gone_. He gives it five minutes, needs less than that, maybe, because Steve will never turn back now.

Tony turns to Fisk and stares him dead in the eye. ‘I’m Iron Man,’ he says.

Fisk smiles. Tony smiles too.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here](http://ironlawyer.tumblr.com/post/174908808232/cap-im-rbb-fic) is the tumblr post if you would like to like/reblog. All feedback much loved!


End file.
